you exist behind my eyelids
by lovesickjily
Summary: How could they be in love with someone whose existence was only known because they frequented each other's dreams? Soulmate Au.


Sleeping was a process that was most definitely unlike any other.

One could drift into a state of consciousness, and their minds would take them to a faraway land, turning conscious happenings and abstract ideas into a strange concoction that would leave the target waking up feeling either confused, elated, terrified— just entertaining to _any_ emotion possible, really.

And James had his fair share of dreams, had dreamt enough to the point that if he had taken a pen and recorded every single one of his dreams, he'd have been able to piece together any entire bloody _manuscript,_ but, this night felt different, and the focal point of his dreams shifted drastically to one person, as if his life was centered around this one being.

The first time that it had happened, James vaguely wondered if this was a different wet dream of some sort.

It started _out_ as one, if he analysed it far enough, because what else could explain the fact that there was a redhead in his dreams, and they were sitting on top of a bed? He'd never seen her before, and obviously it had to be a sign of some sort if his mind had fabricated this girl for _him,_ but then the scene didn't escalate like how he'd expected, and she merely rolled out of bed, not even once looking in his direction like he wasn't actually there.

All right, so this _wasn't_ a wet dream.

Wait.

Actually.

She pulled off her pajama top, revealing her bare back to him, and—

Yeah, no, this was not at all a wet dream, because it turned out that she'd only been changing and not at all entertaining to his fantasies, but then that left the question as to why the _fuck_ was he having a dream about a woman changing her clothes? She didn't at all seem to acknowledge him, as if he was a spectator of some sort and was watching her in the comfort of _her_ own bedroom, his mind having coming up with every little detail of the room, seeing as it seemed to be decorated to _her_ own sense.

The bed was covered with a white blanket and pale pink pillows of various shades scattering the very top of it, and on both ends of the bed were shelves that were joined to the bedside tables. Pictures of her and her friends and family decorated the wall atop of her bed, and her dresser was lined against the opposite wall, topped with teddy bears.

He watched her change, not able to do a single thing about it because this was all a bloody dream, and he didn't even know what she _looked_ like, as she hadn't even once turned around for him to see her face. He was only able to conclude that her face was pretty simply because the rest of her was, and as she turned to walk out of the bedroom, he had not choice but to follow her, his dream feet moving on their own accord.

She stopped suddenly in her tracks, and she turned around, revealing her face to him for the first time, almost as if he'd noticed that he was there all along, though her face didn't at all show any signs of recognition towards him. He was met with beautiful green eyes, eyes that shone so bright that they could blind him if he wasn't already nearly so, and his mind had so obviously created someone so unfathomably beautiful that it was no doubt that she wasn't real, an ethereal being that would only cross his mind just this one time. She smiled, like she was smiling at _him,_ and her eyes seemed to light up even more than they already had, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

He almost _believed_ that she was smiling at him, but then she walked _right_ past him, reaching for something on her bedside table— her phone— and as she turned back, it seemed that she was nearly about to run _right_ into him, and surely then she'd notice him. And just as she was standing _right_ in front of him, his felt himself opening his eyes, and the light beginning to stream in through the windows were a sure-tell sign that he'd been dreaming.

The greens of her eyes were still fresh in his mind, the color nearly akin to that of an emerald's, and he went over to reach for his sketchbook and a pencil, but the sound of his mother calling him down for breakfast made him drop the items promptly, and by the time he'd finished eating, he'd already forgotten about the dream.

* * *

He was sitting across from her, this messy-haired man, and she had absolutely no idea where she was or who _he_ was.

It was a library of some sort, the grandeur of which was quite impressive when compared to her small-town library, as this one room that her and the stranger were in was nearly about the size of the library that she frequented, with stacks upon stacks and rows upon rows of books. She quite wanted to run her fingers over the spines of the books, to read over every inch of the words, but she found that she was glued to her seat and was subjected to the sight of the man in front of her.

He seemed to be studying over his notes, and she'd taken to studying his face, his hazel eyes shining behind a pair of black glasses— glasses almost as black as his unruly, hurricane-kissed hair. He was quite possibly the most beautiful man she'd ever seen in her life, if this even _counted_ as part of her life, because he could have very well been a creation of her mind. Who knew messy hair could be so _attractive_ on a person?

But the thing was, the mere fact frustrating her to no end, was that she was so obviously _there,_ her red hair ensuring that he'd be able to see her in his line of vision, at least in the very _corners_ of his eyes, but he hadn't at all looked up, and she knew that studying was _not_ that interesting, unless he took great pride in reviewing about whatever it was that he'd been reading. He flipped the page, and she found that she was quite entranced by the veins protruding from his brown hands. He was most definitely a figment of her imagination, because he was just so _lovely_ to the eye.

This was by far the strangest dream she'd ever had because it was weird in the most unconventional way, where her typical dreams involved people that she knew doing strange actions in strange scenarios, but this scene was just so _tame_ that she wouldn't at all be surprised if this scene was ripped out of someone's life. A typical dream for her— if it _had_ to include this man— would have most likely concerned them slicing up a mountain with a pair of safety scissors, as such a _normal_ event could not possibly be part of a dream sequence, not for her, and most likely not for anyone else.

Someone called out to him, she could tell, as his eyes shot up, and she realised that she wasn't even _there,_ not really, because his eyes hadn't so much as met hers, almost as if he was burning a hole through her head without even knowing it. He rose from his seat, the chair scraping against the floor quite loudly as his eyes looked completely past her as he closed his books, shoving them into his bag and walking towards his friend.

She stood up as well, her feet moving so that she was in front of him, and she was well aware of their height difference, how much he towered over her, but he continued looking straight, his lips drawn up in a grin as he looked towards his friend. She found that she quite liked his smile, the roguishness of it giving him that extra air of attractiveness, and he walked forward, no doubt about to crash into her, but just when they were nearly about to bump into one another, she jolted awake.

She was met with the same view as she did every morning— the same white blanket, the same pink pillows, and the same sweet teddy bears that she'd kept from her childhood.

No messy-haired bloke.

She flopped back onto her bed and let out a small groan.

* * *

She was back in his dreams once again the very next night.

They weren't in her bedroom as they had been the night before, but instead in a field of some sort, laughing with her friends as they chattered about the future. She was leaning against a tree, the top button of her white oxford undone and her tie— blue with white stripes— loosened, the bottom of which covering the emblem on the shirt, and he found that he was sitting across from her, though, like the other dream, she wasn't at all looking in his direction. She idly picked at the grass, pulling at them and playing with the white clovers that sprung out, securing their stems together as she wrapped up a crown.

She placed it on top of her head, smiling softly as she appeared pleased with herself, beaming when her friends were to quick to jokingly call her royalty. "Princess Lily," they laughed, though they copied her actions, making flower crowns for themselves.

Lily.

That was what her name was.

He couldn't have expected anything less, not when the name fit her so _well,_ a beautiful, delicate flower. She might as well be the queen of flowers if she reigned over like such.

He watched her stand up not too soon after, her hands reaching down to help up her friends, and as she walked forward, he was quite aware of how she was about to bump right into him, but she didn't slow down at all, and when it seemed that they were about to make contact with one another, he woke up once again.

Shit.

He hadn't at all expected her return so quickly, hadn't even expected it at all, and he reached for his sketchbook and pencil once again, turning on the bedside lamp as it was still dark outside, the moonlight just barely coming in through the window. He _had_ to draw her before he forgot her face, and though he would have much rathered commit to it all by drawing her in color, he knew full well that there would be no way he'd be able to exactly replicate the color of her eyes, too unique that he'd be putting her face to shame if he tried. He drew every curve of her face, filled in every shadow that he remembered, using the image from when she'd looked after she'd put the crown on her head.

Who _was_ she?

Was she truly a creation that his mind had made up? Or was she a real person, live and breathing, and if such the case, why had she taken to crossing his mind?

He remembered reading somewhere on the Internet that one can only dream of people and things that they've seen in their life, but he'd never seen _her_ before, never seen her bedroom, and never that field. Perhaps he'd passed her by on the street once without knowing, but he was sure that if she'd made it in his line of vision, he'd at least have acknowledged that fact, because why would he easily let the prettiest girl he'd ever seen in his life go just like that?

When he finished the sketch of her, he found that she was staring at him back, every inch of the drawing true to the sight of her in his dreams, and the sight of her made his heart skip a beat, which was quite strange, that. But he couldn't very much dwell on this dream woman— _Lily—,_ because there was the high chance that she wasn't even real, and he had the rest of his life to go on with.

Yes, he was going to move on, but that fact didn't mean that he was going to toss the drawing in the bin.

* * *

The messy-haired boy was in her dreams again for about the fifth time this week.

They were in his bedroom this time, and she found herself sitting beside him, the light in his room on in contrast to the darkness of the night. He was sketching something quickly, frantically, furiously, almost, and as he occasional darted his face upward from the sketchbook in his lap, it seemed as if he was using her for reference, his eyes, though not completely meeting her own, landing on her face before reverting back to the page.

She'd never been in a bedroom alone with a boy before, not even in a dream, and it felt a bit strange, with her sitting only about a foot or to away from him. The scene shouldn't at all feel intimate, but, of course, it did, and when the view of the sketchbook became clear, she saw that he _had_ been drawing her, this beautiful, bespectacled boy had been _drawing_ her, every inch of the drawing true to detail. He was drawing _her,_ small town Lily Evans, and she shouldn't have been so _flattered,_ because this was a bloody dream sequence after all, but that fact was enough to bring warmth to her inside and out.

He frowned at the sketch, tapping at the page with his pencil, and he wrote a note on the book before placing it down, the words, having been scrawled out in nearly illegible handwriting, saying, _Who are you?_

He went to tear the page out of his sketchbook, and for a fleeting second she thought that he was going to ball it up and throw it away, but he instead brought it over to the wall that his desk was leaning against, taping the page up as it joined about four other sketches of her on the wall. He flicked off his light, and the heard the bed creaking from his weight, the dream promptly ending as she assumed that he'd at one point touched her.

Her eyes fluttered open at the dream, and it had felt so _real,_ just as the other dreams with him had been _._ She jumped up from her bed, turning on the light as she reached for her journal, writing the memories of the dream before she completely forgot what had happened in them, because she _had_ to find answers to why this boy was suddenly taken residence in her mind when she'd never even _seen_ him outside of her dreams.

Her eyes skimmed over the other entries in her journal about him, and her other dreams had included her seeing him sitting in a classroom as he learned, changing out of his clothes after football practice— it made her feel a bit hot at the sight of his bare chest—, and laughing with his small group of friends.

She had drawn a few reasonable conclusions from these dreams already, the first conclusion being that the dreams ended as soon as they made contact with one another, like touching him in her dream would cause the universe to explode because they weren't meant to do such a thing. She had learned his name on the second night, having heard someone calling out his name— James. It was quite the lovely name too for a lovely being, and she _hated_ the fact that no matter how hard she tried to keep his face to memory, she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, which was _horrible,_ seeing as she'd like to think that she had a rather good memory.

She thought back to the dream, wondering if there was a connection to the words he had written to the real world, and what if, perhaps, he wasn't a figment of her imagination and was a _real_ person who had dreams about _her?_ Could it be that possibly, _possibly,_ he was plagued by dreams of _her,_ and _that_ was why he had taken to drawing her when it was still nighttime? Could it really be possible for her to have been dreaming of a random moment that had happened to him throughout the day, which explained the tiny glimpse she had in this man's life? If such the case, was the same happening to _him?_

The light was streaming in through the window now, a signal that she was to get up from bed and start the day, and she shot up from her bed, grabbing a marker from her desk and writing atop her forehead, _Are you real?_ If she was appearing in his dreams as well— that is, if he _was_ actually a person—, then he was bound to see this mark on her head, no matter _what_ she did.

When she headed down for breakfast, she greeted her family, only smiling when Petunia called her a freak for having such words on her forehead, because she could completely take the insult if it meant that she'd have an answer from him in a matter of two days. "Lily, love, is there a reason you've got writing on your forehead?" her mother asked, slightly in concern and curiosity, though not at all disdain.

"It's for a science experiment," she lied, not at all giving up her facade, and she dug into her cereal, hoping _please oh please_ that it all went well.

This ethereal boy, who had somehow managed to leave traces of himself despite the level of surrealness that his existence posed towards her, had taken a physical imposement on her life and actions, but for every night that he crept into her sleep, he'd only work himself into her thoughts much deeper than the last night.

She found herself not at all minding.

* * *

After nearly a week of seeing her in his dreams, James found that he quite liked heading to bed, even more so than usual because it meant that he'd get to see the pretty redhead once again.

In fact, he liked seeing her _so_ much that he'd taken to having afternoon naps, something that he'd never found the appeal of because he quite liked doing loads of things in place of willingly lying unconscious on a bed for hours as a pastime.

The wall atop his desk was nearly littered with drawings of her now, all of which showing her from different angles and positions, and they proved that this was the same person, _had_ to be, because she looked the same in all of them, with her pretty green eyes and dazzling smile. He'd dreamed about her helping out her teacher, reading a book, and eating breakfast with her family, just tiny little clips from her everyday life that he couldn't help but swoon at.

And tonight was full confirmation that she was living, not just someone who his mind had created out of thin air. Her hair had been pulled up into a ponytail, and she was walking down a busy street, with him right behind her. The strangers that she'd passed were giving her an odd look, as if she had decided to go around with barbeque sauce smeared all around her face, but she didn't at all seem to waver from the distaste written over them, her footsteps still light and airy as they had been from when she'd started. Why was everyone looking at her that way? It made him feel a bit uncomfortable for her.

She turned around a corner, opening the door to a store and holding it open for an elderly woman— and almost as if for _him—,_ and it was then that he realised why people had been staring; her forehead was marked with the words _Are you real?_ As she smiled kindly towards the woman, she was met with a thankful smile, though James didn't miss the furrowing of the woman's eyebrows once she had disappeared from Lily's sight.

The message was directed towards him, _had_ to be. There was no other explanation for it. _She_ had to be having the same sort of dreams that he was having, because _no_ one would ever willingly walk around with subliminal words that could very well land them in a mental institution, especially with words like _those_ written on their forehead. She was communicating with him through a _dream,_ which sounded quite insane, out of hand, incomprehensible, because how the actual _fuck_ was any of this possible?

He felt himself slipping through the door before it closed entirely, following her as she weaved past the rows, heading right into the toiletry section and grabbing a box of tampons, like it was a completely normal thing to do, which, he supposed _was_ a completely normal thing to do, considering the fact that she was quite clearly a woman. She looked to have absolutely no shame in doing it, even with the knowledge that this could have very well been a part of a dream that he had, and now, it seemed, it _was_ part of his dream.

He sincerely hoped that she went through it all fine, having read up on all of it before in an attempt to understand the extent of just _how_ much pain people with _that_ one specific body part went through every month.

She stopped to grab a candy bar along the way, and when she turned back towards the check-out line, she consequently ran _right_ into him, snapping him out of his dreams and promptly waking him up.

There were a million thoughts whirling through his mind now, but his first course of action, as always, was to draw her, because he thought that he could _never_ get over how beautiful she was, his heart still pounding as hard as when he'd woken up from the dream, and to know that she was _real,_ that she was somewhere out in the world, brought a smile to his face.

Sirius had come into his room yesterday, not hesitating to take the mickey out of him once he'd spotted the drawings of her, even _after_ James had explained the entire situation to him, saying ' _How could you fancy someone you've never even met?'_ He had a point, but James chose to ignore it, and soon, another drawing of the redhead joined the others on his wall. He grabbed a marker, writing _I am real_ on his cheek, because his hair would have obscured the writing had he written it on his forehead.

Yes, he was real, all right, but perhaps he was a _bit_ out of his mind.

* * *

He was real, he was real, he was _real._

It'd been the first thought that had gone through her mind when she'd woken up, because she'd seen him with the confirmation on his cheeks, quite literally, and it was nearly enough to cover up the fact that the moment— the _one_ moment out of literally the entirety of the 12 hours of the daytime— had been him going into the bathroom to take a leak. She was eternally grateful that he'd been turned around and that she was positioned _behind_ him rather than in front of him, not exactly wanting to see _that_ part of him, though it didn't obscure the sounds of his actions.

He had washed his hands after as well, and she was quite glad that he wasn't one to just leave the bathroom without caring for his hygiene. She caught their reflection in the mirror, and she thought that they looked quite good beside one another, though obviously he didn't see her there. When he'd turned around, he'd bumped right into her. She knew the drill.

Perhaps she should research on lucid dreaming, because she didn't quite want to leave her dream all too soon, and moving out of the way would allow her to see him for a much longer time. Surely the risk of catching a bout of sleep paralysis was well worth it if her attempts were successful, and if she _did_ accidentally get herself stuck in the event of sleep paralysis, perhaps it'd be James that would be lurking in the shadows rather than the typical R.E.M. monster, though that probably would have been a bit creepy.

A week turned into a month, and there wasn't a single night where she didn't see him in her dreams, each night giving her a bit more insight about his life. She had learned that he lived in London, which was really about an hour away, but the problem was that the city was so large that she wouldn't at all know where to look, would have been overwhelmed with it all. She knew that his favourite animal, for whatever strange reason, was a stag, but it didn't at all stop her from smiling whenever she stumbled upon any photos of the animal, having been reminded of the messy-haired boy. She knew all of his interests, or at least _most_ of his interests, and how caring and supportive he was to all of his friends and family.

Was it possible to have feelings for someone she's never even met?

Apparently, it seemed, it _was_ possible.

The next thing she knew, it was the very last week of school before she'd leave this town for London, for _uni,_ and she'd been in an argument with Mary over something insignificant, when her friend brought up a dream that she had the other night, causing her mind to jump back to James. She'd like to think that the dreams had been a cue from the universe to find this boy, that they were meant to be, because what _else_ could explain how fast her heart raced at the mere thought of him?

Yes, it _had_ to be a sign from the universe, because she'd never heard of anyone going on about meeting the love of their life— though that title sounded a _bit_ too far-fetched for now— through their dreams.

She was going to find him, and with the last week of school dwindling down, she had the _perfect_ opportunity to search for him.

* * *

He was in love with her.

That _had_ to be it, and he'd never even _met_ her, only knew about her existence through the help of the universe and his subconscious, but still, it didn't change the fact that he knew the small little things about her, things that no one else would care enough to know. She didn't just find it fitting to haunt his dreams, but he found himself _daydreaming_ about her in random times as well, and he wondered slightly if she'd ever dreamed of him daydreaming about _her._

And one night, on the first week of June, he dreamed about her packing a bag, as if she was about to go somewhere— no, that sounded a bit stupid, because of _course_ she was going somewhere if she was packing. Was it a vacation to another country? Italy, perhaps? It sounded like _quite_ the country to travel to, with its beautiful architecture and attractions, or maybe she was more of a France type of person, or—

No, both of those were wrong, he realised, as he watched her take a journal from her desk, flipping it open to a page that had _his_ name written at the top, and she smiled slightly before placing into her bag. He was able to make out little notes that she had made of him from her dreams, seeing bits like _glasses_ and _hair so messy that it_ had _to be swept up by the forces of a tornado._ She was visiting _him,_ almost as if she hadn't already frequented his mind.

He wanted to meet her as well, _properly,_ and in a normal setting. As she walked towards her closet, pulling a few articles of clothing off of their respective hangers, and as he followed her, he caught sight of her school uniform hanging neatly beside the empty racks, the emblem proudly standing as a raven, the words _Rowena Academy_ written beneath, and the other side of the shirt said _L. Evans._

Lily Evans.

What a beautiful bloody name, he thought, and she turned around, promptly bumping into him, which jolted him awake, as usual. He raced over to his desk, writing her name at least a million times on a sheet of lined paper, because Lily Evans, Lily Evans, _Lily Evans._ He wrote down the name of her school, because that meant that they'd be able to find one another more easily, and he so desperately hoped that the place would be easy to track down, that it would be just the one, but he had a feeling that if he were to go and search the place up online, he'd be able to confirm it with the scenes he'd seen in his dreams.

The drawings that he'd strung up on his wall also seemed to be as if he had some sort of conspiracy going on concerning the redhead, and at one point the drawings started becoming more colourful, with him having spotted coloured pencils nearly akin to the colour of her hair and eyes, meaning that he _had_ to buy them, had to pay attonage for her beauty.

School had ended for him, and now was the perfect time to search for her, because he'd already found her in the region of the stars, a star shining so bright it was no wonder why she frequented both his conscious and unconscious thoughts. It made him mad, _quite_ mad, at the fact that he could only see her face when he closed his eyes, and it drove him absolutely crazy at the thought that despite her occupying every single one of his dreams, he couldn't even bloody _live_ it up like a dream, couldn't kiss her because that wasn't at all how it worked. Bloody stupid, he thought, but perhaps it'd all change when he finally saw her standing in front of him, in the _flesh_.

He honestly had no idea what he'd do if he met her. Perhaps he'd be a total shit about it, which was probably to be expected from him, because he was a bloody wreck when he was nervous, and he had never even held a real conversation with her before. It was almost like Facebook stalking someone he'd never met before, and when the time came that there was to be a situation out of all the multiverses in the world, _this_ one situation would unfold, the situation where he'd wind up meeting this one person, like he hadn't just read about a million posts about how lovely their cat was. And of course, he'd accidentally say something extremely moronic of him, such as whether or not they'd fed their cat today, knowing _full well_ that this person didn't even know his _name._

He felt a bit like a shit, seeing as he felt that he was invading her privacy quite a bit, especially when he'd seen things that he shouldn't have seen, and sometimes he found himself beating himself up over it even when he knew it was out of his control. He'd refrained from down anything about any physical effects she had on his body, because he didn't want her to feel uncomfortable knowing that he was _wanking_ to _her._

He took some solace in the knowledge that Lily knew things about _him_ as well, or, if he could relate it to the simile once more, he could call it _mutual_ Facebook stalking, but, of course, he didn't know _what_ she knew. What he _did_ know about her, however, was the problems she had with her sister, and how smart she was, and how friendly she was to literally _everyone_ around her, and how bloody _stubborn_ she was. He had dreamed about some blonde bloke asking her out on a date, which made him scream about a million abhorrent things towards the bloke despite knowing that he couldn't at all hear him, but it was all fine in the end, because Lily kindly rejected him.

There _were_ some dreams that he rather wished he didn't have, where she'd stepped out of the shower in only a towel, and it didn't make him feel good knowing that he was invading her privacy, only vaguely wondering if she'd seen any certain aspects of _his_ in her own dreams. These dreams _didn't_ have filters, after all.

Yes, before he went too far off into a tangent, what the actual _fuck_ would he say to her?

Awkward introductions really were out of the question, because a simple, "Hello. Nice to meet you," could _not_ suffice, not when they'd met already, but they also couldn't very well pick up where they'd left off.

He didn't know what to do at all, didn't even know where to _start,_ but he supposed he'd make it all up as he went along, because why would he waste time when he could be looking for her out there in the world?

 _I'm going to meet you, Lily,_ he thought, though he knew that they didn't share a telepathic connection, at least not in _that_ way, but he hoped that she received that thought from him.

* * *

London was giant, _so_ much more giant than she'd imagined it to be, but, of course, that was only to be expected, because she only was a small-town girl anyway, never having stepped foot out of the comfort of her town.

Mary had insisted that she come along, thinking that she was quite mad for up and deciding that she wanted to visit London, because her reasoning to justify her visit was indeed a bit strange, as who could _ever_ believe her when she said that she'd met a charming boy in her dreams? She wanted physical evidence of this messy-haired boy, not to mention the fact that she wasn't at all familiar with the streets of London, and one wrong turn may not bode well for her.

They'd strolled down endless streets already, Mary wanting to stop at nearly every outlet to take a picture or to sit down and take a break, the walking taking a wear on their feet. She was persistent in her efforts to find James, her eyes trying to desperately cling on to any head that might be topped with the messy strands. She'd seen him so many times in her dreams that she practically memorised every inch of him, and she was fairly certain that she could easily identify him from his hands alone, but no matter where she looked, she _just_ couldn't find him anywhere.

She wondered if he knew that she was searching for him, and if such the case, was _he_ looking for her as well? If not, was he at least giving her hints about his location? She liked to think that he was, but it was quite hard to pinpoint a location, only knowing that he attended some sort of prestigious fancy private school, and any places that she'd seen him visit she couldn't seem to put them together, because all fields looked the same, not to mention the fact that she couldn't differentiate one street from another when she had no idea what she was even looking for in the first place.

James frequented the city a lot, she could tell, but she didn't at all blame him, not when there was _so_ much to see. She couldn't very well do the same when her town was surrounded by literally _just_ grass, and unless she wanted to see the slight variations in the colour of the turf, she stayed in the comfort of her home.

She knew that as much as she hoped that he'd somehow miraculously show up right in front of her eyes, she knew that wasn't to be the case, that she'd end up going back home without catching so much as even the simplest sight of him. She was only 18, after all, and she didn't have any money in her name. If she _did,_ it was about a quid at most, so an overnight stay in London wasn't even an option, nor was crashing on the streets.

It wasn't at all likely that they would have a chance meeting, and she had hoped as they went around the city that she could spot _something_ that she recognised in a dream, but the fields that she passed just didn't seem as green and vibrant as the fields she knew he frequented when he played football.

She wished that she had paid more attention to the logo on his shirt, but instead, she'd been too entranced by how awfully beautiful he was every time to notice it thoroughly. What she _did_ know about his uniform was that he wore a gold and red tie, an accessory that he seemed to neglect wearing properly, the manner in which he wore his uniform driving her crazy in _both_ senses. He always seemed to forget that he had to tuck in his shirt, and his tie was almost always thrown haphazardly around his neck. When he jumped, she could make out that tiny sliver of stomach that existed to just to tease her.

She wanted to meet him, to at least fix his tie and tuck his shirt in before she came to undone it all herself.

There was just _no_ way someone like him could exist.

She'd tried asking around if anyone knew of a posh school where the students wore gold and red ties, but she was only met with scorn and irritation, to which Mary told her to give up on asking. Only, she _wasn't_ going to give up, and she whirled around to bother one last person, who had graced her with the answer that she wanted, _needed._

They had ventured towards the school— Godric Academy— and yes, yes, _yes._ This was it. This was the place, _evidence_ that James Potter was alive and breathing. She could make out the field that he played in, could see the courtyard that he frequented with his friends, but the only problem though was that the place was _closed_ for the summer, and so they were back to square one, right back to where they had started.

It was nearing sunset now, a signal that this day was put to waste, and she had to be home soon, not wanting to be cause of concern for her parents, especially when it had taken much convincing for them to let her go in the first place. They made their way to the London Underground, Lily being quite fascinated by the transportation system like the strange girl that she was, and she and Mary had to hold hands to avoid being separated by the large influx of people coming and going throughout the place, not at all caring about their judging faces for what they _thought_ was going on between the two best friends.

Resignation and disappointment had to be written on her face, because Mary had been saying reassuring words to her as they settled down in the train home, but the words seemed to come in through one ear and out the other, her eyes trained on the view, though it wasn't at all interesting, not unless she liked seeing the faces of agitated businesspeople and confused tourists.

"...And honestly, Lily, London's a big place. There's always a next time to see your dream man— and I mean the 'dream' aspect in _both_ ways— but…"

Lily zoned her out, her attention having been taken to the world outside of the train, because amongst the many people, people of all sorts of backgrounds, her eyes had latched onto that of black hair, black messy hair that was all too familiar for her, and the boy seemed to be searching for someone, searching for _her._ No, this wasn't real. She was tired and all too hopeful, and James Potter really _wasn't_ in the train station, wasn't really there, and—

He turned around, and her eyes met hazel, a hazel that was so distinctive from the rest, his eyes appearing brown from the distance between them, but he was there, he was there, _he was there._ She wanted to scream, or cry, or both, maybe, because she'd found him after dreaming about him for so long, after looking for him that entire day, and she saw the recognition grow in his eyes at the sight of her. It was confirmation that he truly _had_ been dreaming about her as well, and it was as if time had slowed between them, that perhaps she could manipulate time before the train moved away, to run up into his arms.

He was so much more beautiful in person, she thought. His hair, perhaps even _more_ wonderfully disastrous than in her dreams, seemed to be _begging_ her to touch it, and she wanted to, _so_ much that it physically hurt. She stood up from her spot on the train, drawing attention from the other occupants as they stared at the redheaded girl with disdain at her abruptness, and, as if he was thinking the same thing, he began walking towards the train, his motions quickly turning into running as he tried to board the train before it was out of his sight.

Of course, the universe absolutely hated them together, despite having been the reason she'd taken to going on this trip in the first place, and the train started at the same time they finally started coming to their senses, because no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't at all keep up with the train.

She could only stare at him until he disappeared from her sight.

* * *

Fucking shit fuck _fuck._

He had seen her, right there, in that very train that had well disappeared from his line of vision only a few minutes ago, and he could only stare at the ground now, because there was nothing left of it, nothing left of _her._

She was so fucking gorgeous, _so_ gorgeous that it was all he could focus on when they'd made eye contact with one another, but she had been _so_ far away, not quite close enough for him to fully make out the individual green specks of her eyes or each red strand of her hair, but he knew, just from the way she had been looking at him, that she'd been dreaming about him as well.

He had started moving too late, had exited the train from her hometown much too late, that if he were to have gotten out just a few minutes earlier, he'd have been able to run into her before she had to leave. He was _so_ fucking close to meeting her, was _so_ fucking close to hearing her lovely voice and touching her— only if she gave him permission, of course— only for the opportunity to be taken away from him without so much as a single word.

He didn't even know if she was coming _back_ for him or if he should go back _to_ her, because what if he did took the next train to Cokeworth and she ended up returning to London to see him? That would have been a mess as it was, and he'd only gone to her hometown because he had thought that he'd be able to meet her before she made the journey to London, as it would have been far easier to find her in her small town than finding _him_ in such a populated area. Perhaps he should just sit it out in the two hour wait, and if she didn't arrive by then, then he'd give up for the day and try again tomorrow, or any other day.

He'd seen almost every scene that she'd ever been in in his dreams, that if he were to bring his drawings of her with him, then he'd be able to connect every sketch to a place in her hometown. He put his earbuds in his phone, setting an alarm for exactly two hours from now so that when it went off, he'd most definitely be able to hear it for that jolting awake.

For now, a dream of her would suffice, but after he'd drifted asleep, having taken to lying on a bench, he didn't at all dream about her, not even _one_ sign of her in his dreams, and that _never_ bloody happened, not even _once._ He'd _always_ had a dream about her every night, every time he went to sleep, so now, he wondered, where the bloody _fuck_ was she?

He didn't give a shit about an imaginary Sirius juggling a pineapple on his head, no matter _how_ amusing that dream was, because he _had_ to know about Lily's day, _had_ to see a glimpse of her journey to search for _him._ He didn't know that he'd come to take his dreams about her for granted, but obviously, now was the time to be wishing that she was back in his unconscious state, even if just to do her homework in peace. A tiny little portion of him was relieved about the ordeal because now he didn't have to feel like a bloody creep looking into her life like that, though it was just so fucking _shocking_ that he could barely even register that relief.

He jolted awake from his spot on the bench, the obnoxious ring from his alarm filling his ears, signaling that he'd been asleep for two hours, his Circadian cycle be damned. Had he really spent two hours dreaming about something _without_ Lily in it at all? Two whole bloody hours? He liked to think that he was the active type, no, he _knew_ that he was the active type, always one to keep the house lit up on an otherwise dark, empty street as attempts to be as overly-productive as he possibly could, and to have just thrown two hours of his time doing something so bloody _unproductive_ and so _lacking_ of Lily was abhorrent, absolutely _repugnant._

The train pulled up into view, just as it had been scheduled to arrive, and he sat up on the bench, his eyes tracing over the exit as he searched, hoping to spot a glimpse of red coming from out of it, but after the rush of people dwindled down to nearly no one, no traces of red in sight, his shoulders drooped slightly. She hadn't returned for him, and he shouldn't even be disappointed about that, knowing that she had other things on her plate, that the train to London was expensive, and—

He felt a tap at his shoulder.

He knew who it was already, because who _else_ could it be, tapping him like an old friend, and he reckoned, in a sense, they kind of, sort of, _were_ old friends, old friends who had never even _met_ one another before, not until today, not until this very instance. He turned around, and though he was already most painfully aware of how much he towered over her, she was so _small,_ only coming up to just above his shoulders.

She was so bloody beautiful, _so_ much prettier in person, and she was wearing a pale pink dress paired with a denim jacket and a pair of ankle boots, her dark red hair falling softly down her shoulders, the tops of her head adorned by strands of red twisted together, almost as if they were a crown. He caught himself staring into her eyes— lovely, green eyes that shined like emeralds, a color nearly akin to that of the grass topped with the touches of morning dew, gleaming with the droplets— and he snapped out of it, chastising himself, but _fuck_ she was so lovely.

Every second, every fleeting second lead up to this wonderful, opportune moment right here, right now with her, and he couldn't even fathom the true extent of _just_ how fucking mystified he was by how their worlds had finally aligned with one another, creating a bridge that allowed them to _finally_ stand in front of one another. He vaguely wondered if he would wake up from a hidden dream if he reached out to touch her.

"You're real," he breathed in wonder, his hands taking on to their habit to fly up to his hair as he stared at the sweet smile on her face. He couldn't help it then. He didn't give her a chance to respond, could wait just a bit more before his ears were to be graced by the sound of her voice, a sound that he knew would make his heart burst, preserving the sound in his head forever, and he pulled her close to him, engulfing her in a hug.

Sight and sound as the only senses _just_ weren't enough. He needed to feel her, to breathe her in, to use every single one of her senses when it came to her, and she felt so warm under his touch now, her arms entangling themselves around him. He heard the sounds of soft laughter fall from her lips, and when she said his name, a joyous sound that appealed to his sense of hearing, he knew it, his thoughts confirmed.

He was in love with her, and she with him.

He'd closed his eyes then, having feared that he'd wake up in his bed, but when he opened them, she was still there, still melting into the embrace.

When she spoke, she refused to let go of him, the words slipping quickly out of her mouth. "I fell asleep on the train, but I didn't get any dreams about you. I thought that maybe you'd given up, or maybe the universe decided that we blew our chances with each other, but it looks like neither of that was true now. I— it's really good to have finally met my dream man. Literally."

He wanted to jump with joy at the notion that he had finally met her as well, wanted to voice it back to her, but the guilty side of him was nearly beginning to consume him, because he'd seen her in her most private moments— well, not _too_ private, but private enough that he felt that he was intruding on her— and he felt shame welling up inside of him. He pulled away abruptly. "Lily, I never meant to dream about you like that. And trust me when I say that I'm bloody glad that I've finally met you, but I feel like a right shit knowing what you look like in your— you know."

She didn't say anything, only blinking slightly as she took in his words, and he vaguely made out the red growing up her neck as she smiled reassuringly at him. "I never thought of it like that," she admitted, "And trust me when I say that I've had my fair share of dreams about you in _that_ way too, but please don't beat yourself up over it. I suppose we haven't had a formal introduction?"

"Introduction?" he repeated dumbly, his inability to conceive the turn of situations rendering him speechless, like a fish without water.

She nodded, sticking her hand out, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Hi. My name's Lily, and I'd really like to kiss you right now."

"Go ahead," he blurted, and his hand found its way back up into his hair, nevermind the fact that he could tell that she was biting back a smile, "Shit. That's not how I'm supposed to introduce myself. Do you want to shake hands to start it out?"

"That's why I held my hand out in the first place."

"Right."

He put his hand in hers, the warmth spreading from the palms of their hands to all over his body, and this small touch _wasn't_ enough. He wanted more, _so_ much more, because he'd been dreaming— figuratively— about how soft her lips were, and even if he _had_ physically dreamt about kissing her, it wouldn't at all come up to the real thing. The _sight_ of it wasn't enough, because he wanted to know how she tasted, how she felt, how she smelled, wanted the fullness of it all to sweep over him like a wave coursing over the shore. His eyes flickered over to hers for a split second, and she looked just as conflicted as he did, her eyes trained on his lips, almost as if she was thinking the same thing as him.

The next thing he knew, her hands had strung themselves around his neck, and nevermind the hustles of the people walking all around them, because _everything_ about her was overwhelming him, and the wear the walking had done on his feet was all worth it. He marveled at how bloody perfect their lips fit against one another, as if the universe had created them for each other, had left a piece of themselves in the other, had made it so that they'd find themselves wandering in each other's conscious and unconscious thoughts.

The universe was a strange concept, the vastness easily astonishing him, and now, here they were, pressed up against one another in a loving embrace, because the universe had deemed that out of all the billions of people in the world, it had taken to the fact that no one else could better suit him, that no one else would ever share such a spiritual connection with him like she did.

"I can't believe you're real," he murmured against her lips, and he felt her lips move upwards.

"I can't believe the universe set us up."

"Yeah? Believe it, then."

Though she had to go very soon, he knew that this was only the start, that their encounters wouldn't just end at the dreams. Even with the distance separating them, they'd find a way to make it work, whether she paid him a visit in his dreams or in person, he did not mind, because they had just about all the time in the world, so long as the universe permitted.

And apparently, it seemed, the universe was more than happy to oblige them.


End file.
